


The Price of Deception

by Keytrastar



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers: Prime
Genre: AU, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Character Study, Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Evil autobots, F/F, Falling In Love, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Slave, Matrix of Leadership (Transformers), Mpreg, Much darker than the original, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Shattered Glass, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Torture, Transformer Sparklings, Transformers Spark Bonds, but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-01-18 18:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21281021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keytrastar/pseuds/Keytrastar
Summary: This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This simply couldn’t be happening. The autobots were supposed to be better than this! ‘What happened to you?’ Megatron seemed to ask, his dim optics closing in grim resignation. ‘This isn’t like you, Optimus..’—Rewrite of Pain and Servitude—
Relationships: Airachnid/Arcee (Transformers), Breakdown/Bulkhead, Breakdown/Knock Out, Bumblebee/Soundwave, Dreadwing/Wheeljack, Knock Out/Smokescreen, Megatron/Optimus Prime, Ratchet/Shockwave, Starscream/Ultra Magnus
Comments: 51
Kudos: 140





	1. Chapter 1

It took him a few seconds to realize what had happened. One moment he was standing over the fallen form of Optimus Prime, ready to bring the Dark Star Saber down upon him and end his miserable existence, and the next he was struggling to vent, his systems going into acute shock as he looked down at the blade sticking out of his silver chestplates. 

This.. this couldn’t be happening, this had to be a bad dream, surely. 

The world around him slowed, all of his attention automatically drawn to the sword impaling him. His arm lifted as if in slow motion, ready to strike down the insolent pest whose life force he thought he had extinguished merely a few kliks ago, but the familiar handle of the Saber slipped from his grasp, his digits suddenly too weak to hold it, falling over the side of the rebuilt Omega Lock. He stared at his servo for what seemed to be an eternity, but couldn’t in fact have been more than a few moments, denial coursing through him at full force. 

This wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. 

His knees buckled of their own accord and he was only dimly aware of them hitting the cold metal floor, his digits automatically curling around the bioluminescent blade as if that would keep him upright.. as if that would keep him alive. His vents struggled to bring in air to cool his suddenly overheating systems, a steady buzz filling his audios as he gasped desperately for breath he knew he wouldn’t get. Someone was screaming out his name, he realized, but he could not tell what they were saying. Starscream. That screechy vocalizer was unmistakable, distorted as it was, but why did it sound almost.. desperate? This wasn’t the end for him after all, Megatron would soon rise to his pedes, kill the scout who had foolishly dared to injure him and then turn his attention back on the Prime. He just needed a few seconds to gather himself, that’s all. He was going to end the autobots once and for all. He was going to-

He was going to die.

Suddenly, the support beneath his servos vanished and he felt his frame collapse to the floor, his systems screaming frantically at him and Dark Energon spewing thickly from his chest wound, pooling beneath him until he could feel its warm, slippery substance against his claws. That was the moment when the pain finally hit him. His mouthplate opened in a silent scream as burning agony washed over him, warnings and notifications of imminent system shut downs flashing before his optics, overwhelmingly bright and terribly real. But those weren’t the only images he saw. The walls of the gladiatorial arena towering above him for the first time after he left the mines, flashes of energon flying through the air, accompanied by the excited screams of a bloodthirsty crowd, Soundwave standing opposite him, tentacles poised for slaughter, mechs roaring their approval as he voiced his vision of a new Golden Age, Orion Pax, his field terrified, but his blue optics alight with determination, striding into his private quarters, carrying a datapad full of ideas for a better future - all those long forgotten memories came flooding back as if some dam had been broken the moment the sharp steel pierced his spark.

He supposed that this was what mechs described when they remembered their near death experiences. Their lives flashing before their optics, as if taunting them, asking them if they were satisfied with the way they had lived, if they were ready to die. Except Megatron wasn’t ready. He wasn’t!

A sharp spasm of his wounded spark wracked his frame and he couldn’t hold back an agonized cry if he tried. Darkness edged his vision and he fought it with all his might, struggling to remain conscious. Because he knew what would happen the moment he closed his optics and he couldn’t allow it, couldn’t bear even thinking about it. But… he was so tired..

The last thing Megatron was aware of were servos suddenly descending upon his frame, turning him over onto his back, the brilliant blue optics of Optimus Prime, so similar to Orion’s yet so different, looking down upon him, his gaze unreadable.

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

He awoke to the blinding white light of the Nemesis med bay. Squinting and hissing his discomfort through clenched dentae, the warlord made a mental note to threaten Knock Out the second the vain mech deigned to check up on his patient, remind him to not waste precious energon on excessive lighting just to satisfy his ridiculous needs of seeing his own armor shine. That and inadvertently causing his leader discomfort. By Primus, if he wasn’t actually a talented surgeon, Megatron would’ve kicked him off the ship a long time ago. 

He shuttered his optics to allow his systems to recalibrate, wincing slightly as the ache in his spinal cord and joints made themselves known. How had he gotten there and how long had he been out? His memory banks soon supplied him with the answer to the first question, but his internal chronometer seemed to be taking its time with answering the second. No matter, Soundwave would no doubt be here soon with a report the moment he learned that his master was awake. He would get all the facts of the current state of things before the cycle was over. However, even though there currently were no reasons for him to feel this way, Megatron couldn’t help but think that something was amiss. Something was very wrong, but he couldn’t place his digit on what. That on itself was reason enough for concern. His instincts had never failed him before.

In order to relieve some of the soreness, he shifted on the medical berth, fully intent on propping himself up until he was at least sitting reclined against the slab he was placed upon. He would not stand for his subordinates seeing him in such an undignified position as lying flat on his back after all. However, the warlord soon found that he could not do so. His wrists encountered resistance the minute they moved, the feeling of something clamped tightly around his arms and legs finally registering with his stasis-addled senses. Energon cuffs. His optics narrowed, something cold and vaguely familiar welling in his wounded chest. How very peculiar. The decepticons had won, hadn’t they? Surely Soundwave along with Starscream and the rest managed to exterminate the autobots, since Megatron was still alive and obviously repaired. But then, why was he restrained? What was going on? Was this another one of the seeker’s attempts to steal his throne?

The doors to the med bay slid open smoothly, admitting someone inside and drawing the warlord’s attention away from his odd predicament, claws clenching in their restraints. The familiar red and white plating made his optics widen slightly, then narrow into tiny slits. Ratchet. So, it would seem that the autobots had won after all and had chosen to keep him alive. A grave mistake on their part, for the moment Megatron freed himself he would make sure to tear them all apart. Personally. Starting with a certain yellow scout.

The medic seemed to feel the warlord’s red optics boring into his frame since he soon tore his attention away from the datapad he held in his servos, failing to flinch as he turned to meet the other’s murderous scowl. “So, I see that you’re finally awake,” he said, his voice oddly calm, though Megatron caught the small tinge of unhappiness within it. Usually, that wouldn’t have concerned him. It was only natural that Ratchet wouldn’t be happy to see his enemy and kidnapper alive and well, but there was something else there too. Something other than the warlord regaining consciousness was bothering the old mech and Megatron had a nasty suspicion that it was somehow connected to him and his decepticons. The autobots had decided upon an execution date then, that was the only valid theory his processor could supply him with. The medic had shown a strong aversion to killing before and his sense of morals would make it difficult for him to accept such a verdict.

It would also make sense as to why they kept him alive as well. No doubt Optimus wouldn’t be satisfied unless he was the one to extinguish Megatron’s spark and would prefer to do so before a delighted crowd. It would grant him even more political power than he already had, the population subsequently viewing him as their leader for vanquishing the tyrant that had allegedly been behind Cybertron’s destruction. They didn’t care for the details, all they needed was an obvious enough hero figure.

A long pause fell between them, Ratchet obviously waiting for the other to speak and the silver mech reluctant to do so, glaring at him with so much malice that it could have burned the medic to ash. When it was obvious that Megatron would say nothing, Ratchet sighed, a habit he had obviously picked up from his human allies, and spoke, his digits clenching tightly around the datapad he held in his servos. “As you’ve no doubt noticed, you’re still alive, meaning that I managed to repair you and stop your systems from going into permanent shut down. The Star Saber missed your spark itself, but the damage to your chamber was still quite severe. Fortunately or unfortunately, however you look at it, we managed to hook you up to spark support moments before your life force could be extinguished. I’ve done the best I can, but there is still a possibility that the chamber will remain significantly scarred for the rest of your function. Being left with a weakened spark is also currently a very real possibility, so for the time being try to take it easy,” ‘as much as you can, given the circumstances’ remained unsaid. “Due to the severity of the wound, I recommend berthrest for at least two orns, though I suspect that you will be moved soon enough to another location,” the corners of Ratchet’s mouthplate dipped into a frown. Megatron merely raised an optic ridge. “As to how long you’ve been out, you’ve been unconscious for around seven Mega-cycles now. And, as you’ve no doubt surmised, the decepticon forces were defeated and Cybertron revived by Optimus Prime. All of which leaves you and your officers in Autobot custody.”

That last part made Megatron scowl, his servos clenching angrily in their restraints. The accursed Prime would pay for stealing his rightful glory for saving their home, the warlord would make sure of that. When he inevitably freed himself they would all pay. But for now all he needed was to have some patience and wait for a more opportune time to strike. He was still healing, through the pain dampeners he could feel the welds holding his chest plates together, the new metal slowly melding with his own as his self-repair took over the damage. The warlord could be forbearing when he needed to be. Seven mega-cycles weren’t enough for the autobots to even start properly rebuilding and definitely weren’t enough for refugees to start flooding in back to their revived planet. Which meant that there were only eight harried autobots watching over a horde of decepticons while simultaneously trying to prep an entire planet for new arrivals. Security would inevitably become lax. The poor fools really should’ve killed him when they had the chance, lowered the threat level. 

Ratchet opened his mouth, no doubt to inform the warlord of the verdict they had decided upon, but the doors slid opened for a second time that day, cutting him off before he could even start. Three mechs strode into the brightly lit room, their energetic gaits radiating confidence and arrogance, their deep navy blue armor glinting in the overly bright lamps of the Nemesis’s med bay. Megatron’s optics narrowed further, a sneer pulling at the corner of his scarred lip plates. He recognized that color scheme, but never in a thousand vorns did he think that he would ever lay eyes upon it again. Sentinel Prime and his Elite Guard. How very unexpected, he thought they had been exterminated in the Battle of Iacon. Yet another failure on Starscream’s part, he would have to tear off the seeker’s wings for that the moment they reclaimed their ship from Autobot hands.

The Prime stepped closer, signaling for his trusted lackeys to remain by the door as he approached the medic and the warlord, his optics gleaming in savage triumph as he surveyed the latter’s bound form. With no small amount of amusement, Megatron noted the way the other neared him, far bolder now that the silver mech was strapped down and defenseless than he had been in the heat of battle all those millions of years ago. Those were the days. “Ah, about to inform our captive of his sentence are we, medic? A shame, for I will have to take that honor away from you. You don’t mind, right?” Without waiting for an answer, the navy blue mech turned to face Megatron, obviously ready to recite the pointless and tiresome speech he had prepared beforehand in anticipation of getting to gloat over the warlord’s bound form. How bothersome. Before he could proceed to do so however, Ratchet’s form was suddenly between them, the medic’s field strangely determined.

“With all due respect Sentinel Prime, sir, my patient has just come out of stasis, he is not ready for visitors, much less long conversations. Remember, that but a few short mega-cycles ago he was in critical condition! What he needs right now is a chance to rest and recuperate from his injury.” That.. was certainly unexpected. Megatron, while genuinely still weak, was more than capable of talking. Why would the medic blatantly lie to his own superior? And for Megatron’s sake of all mechs? What was going on here?

Sentinel’s optics narrowed dangerously as he towered over the smaller mech, his considerable field beginning to ripple in displeasure. The Prime did always hate insubordination, the warlord recalled. More than anything in perhaps the entire world the other loathed when somebody disobeyed his orders. The most laughable aspect of that particular character quirk was that Sentinel was genuinely oblivious to the fact that his Guard would’ve been far more effective in its exploits had he allowed his admittedly smarter subordinates to act independently from time to time. Megatron had used that arrogance against him more than once. He wouldn’t be surprised if the other wanted some form of petty revenge. Unfortunately for the Elite Guard Commander, the Autobot code he so strictly abided by prohibited beating up injured and helpless prisoners.

While Megatron hated to be described as anything remotely similar to helpless, currently it worked to his advantage. He wouldn’t be fully mobile for a while yet with his injury and the welds were still fresh, easy to crack. As much as it pained him to admit it, Megatron was dangerously vulnerable.

“Sympathizing with the enemy, medic?” Sentinel sneered, his shoulders squaring as if trying to somehow intimidate the medic standing between him and his prey. The warlord did not enjoy being prey. Ratchet’s optics hardened and it was obvious that he wanted to tell his superior just everything he thought of him, but one glance at the armed soldiers standing by the doors seemed to change his processor in an instant. It shouldn’t have surprised Megatron as much as it did. The old medic was smart and knew how to pick his battles, most of the time anyway. The warlord had considered killing him when the other refused to assist the decepticons in the synthetic energon development, but that mattered little now.

“No, sir, of course not,” Ratchet said through clenched dentae. Sentinel, his optics glinting in barely contained joy at his supposed victory, moved to go past him, but was stopped by the medic’s servo grasping his wrist. The red and white mech quickly withdrew his digits at the seething glare sent his way, but held his ground, field calm and even. “However, it is my duty to inform you that Optimus Prime has specifically requested that his possession remains untouched unless medically necessary.” Megatron’s optics snapped to Ratchet’s determined form, flashing in barely suppressed fury. Possession?! Megatron belonged to no one! Who did the autobots think they were to refer to him as such?! But... what would make Ratchet of all mechs speak of him this way?

Sharp optic ridges furrowing, the silver mech studied the aged soldier before him, something churning uncomfortably in his tank. He’d known the medic for a long time, even before the war they had on occasion crossed paths. The old mech was a staunch supporter of individual rights, even after four million years that fact had not changed. What would suddenly make him forget his principals? Moreover, what could he possibly mean by ‘Optimus Prime’s possession,? They were going to execute him, weren’t they? He was a war criminal after all. Unless... no. It couldn’t be true. The autobots were supposed to be above such things!

Sentinel’s smirk widened at the spark of horrified realization in those blood red optics, the gravity of his position finally dawning on Megatron. “Finally figured out your punishment, huh? Oh, don’t look so surprised, you should have expected this. Nobody crosses the council and gets away with it, not even you,” his servo lifted, long digits caressing with mock gentleness down the warlord’s flank, tracing the thin armor plates of his midsection and curling around the other’s hip strut, thumb just barely brushing the edge of Megatron’s interface panel. Ratchet began to protest, but was easily held back by the two lackeys suddenly standing behind them, forcing him to watch as the Prime fondled his patient, blue optics alight with crazed delight.

Megatron went very still as the invasive touch travelled lower still, his plating burning from the unwanted caress. His clawed servos clenched in their restraints, crimson optics flashing in barely contained fury. “Remove your servo or lose it,” he growled or at least tried to, his voice a dry rasp in his abused throat. Sentinel smirked, obviously relishing causing the other any form of discomfort possible, but nevertheless removed his appendage from the warlord’s body. However, Megatron did not miss the brief glimpse of fear in the other’s optics. Even restrained and weak the decepticon leader was a threatening and intimidating presence. The silver mech would be lying if he said that that information didn’t please him.

The Prime must have realized this, for he instantly scowled, his faceplate darkening in displeasure, “Strong talk for a bound pleasure slave,” he spat, his field shrinking back when Megatron’s flared, the silver mech’s self-control shattering as he wrenched against the restraints keeping him strapped to the medical berth, the cuffs creaking and whining in protest as they struggled to keep him immobilized. Even a life-threatening injury could not take away all of his considerable physical strength.

“I am Lord Megatron! I belong to no one!” He roared, his powerful voice reverberating in the small confines of the room, prompting the arrogant Prime to stumble back, blue optics wide, and the lackeys to release the red and white medic, swiftly retrieving their weapons. Megatron did not miss the way their servos trembled as they leveled their guns on him. 

Before he could say or do anything else, his body seized up, electricity sparking over his usually polished silver armor as something around his neck, something he hadn’t noticed before, discharged. A collar. How had he not noticed it before? A pained grunt escaped his clenched dentae, his body sagging against the medical berth, his welds finally making themselves known through the pain killers injected into his system, something wet dripping down his front. The force of his struggling must’ve been enough to crack one of the patches the medic had placed over the stab wound. Through the haze of images and sounds around him, he could hear what sounded like Ratchet’s voice, loud and urgent, telling Sentinel and his cronies to leave as he saw to the reopened injury. Vaguely, Megatron felt a cable attach to his medical port, skimming through the list of alerts and warnings and forcing his systems into a temporary stasis. 

Darkness fell upon him once again and this time he did not fight its pull, his spark twisting in his chest with growing despair.

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

Megatron slumped against the cold unforgiving wall of his cell, his red optics dim and his frame wracked with periodic shivers as the freezing temperature of his prison sunk into his joints. The Autobot medic had been right when he said that they’d move him to another place. As soon as it was apparent that his injuries were no longer going to reopen, Megatron was transferred to the ship’s brig, along with his subordinates. Not surprising, they had no other locations available to safely imprison them. But their escape was proving itself to be far more difficult to orchestrate than he had ever expected. 

The arrival of Sentinel Prime and his troops provided Optimus’s team with the extra hands it so sorely needed, taking over the shifts in both the brig and on the bridge while Bulkhead kept himself and his teammates busy by starting the reconstruction of the Autobot capital. The energon bars within the prison section of the ship were reinforced, the cells meticulously checked for any possible escape routes, bruising Megatron’s pride in the process. Did they really think he’d be so negligent as to allow any part of the ship, an important component such as the brig at that, to fall apart? They were even thorough enough to recheck the security systems, making sure that none of their E.M fields were still listed as an officer’s. It would seem that Sentinel somehow did manage to pick up a few things while fleeing from the main decepticon forces into space.

Those weren’t the only measures they had taken to prevent any attempts of escape however.

While the stasis cuffs were more than enough to keep them mostly immobilized, the decepticons were further weakened by the lack of fuel given them. While none of them were exactly strangers to starvation, the low power levels eventually took their toll. Their movements, small as they were, became sluggish, their optics dimming until they were a dull rosy color compared to the burning crimson they had been before. The borderline painful cramping in their tanks became constant, some, like Knock Out, hissing their discomfort because of it, the rest remaining silent. 

Megatron bore it all stoically, refusing to show the autobots any weakness as the days slowly trickled by. At least they weren’t resorting to torture yet and their mocking and cutting remarks could be easily ignored, allowing the silver mech some time to think. They wouldn’t be escaping from the brig, that much was clear, and they would undoubtedly be too weak to fight when they were finally removed from the accursed cells. Communication was difficult, given the constant presence of the guards, the decepticons’s commlinks having been blocked off even before they had been imprisoned here. They could try speaking in codes, but that would attract unnecessary attention and he didn’t have a good enough view of his comrades to try using sign language. He could try tapping his digits against the metal wall, use one of the many codes that every decepticon was familiar with, but that would again draw the Elite Guard’s notice. Even if he did eventually come up with an inconspicuous method to speak to his subordinates, he doubted they’d be in a good enough shape to be of use.

Soundwave still hadn’t recovered from the time he’d spent trapped in the Shadow Zone. Heavily reliant on sounds and the feeling of fields around him, the unnatural silence and stillness of the other dimension almost drove him to a breaking point. That coupled with starvation was apparently enough to even cause hallucinations. The autobots must have realized the possible effects of the dimensional exile, for they took their time in retrieving him. Fortunately, he had had enough presence of mind to deploy Laserbeak before they could seize both of them, releasing her to the stars. A smart move on his part, Megatron had no doubts that the minicon would be successful in reaching their remaining scattered forces around the galaxy, the nearest decepticon outpost belonging to General Strika. The femme would know what to do from there. If Megatron and his officers failed to free themselves on their own, they would have to wait for reinforcements. He just hoped that they would arrive before the autobots had had enough time to settle in and put up strong defenses. The decepticons did not have the numbers and ships to handle a planet siege.

Until then, they would have to do their best to survive.

The sound of heavy pedesteps echoing down the hallway reached his audios, but he payed no attention, too consumed in far more important things than a pair of arrogant guards to pay them much attention. He could feel the heavy, unpleasant feeling of their E.M fields smothering his, surrounding him by the vile projections of lust and savage pleasure. The pedesteps stopped and he didn’t have to look up to know that they’d decided to linger before his cell, baring his sharp fangs in barely contained anger. So, they had finally gathered enough courage to openly mock him now that he was severely weakened and restrained. What brave soldiers. His scarred lipplates curled in disgust. 

Even though he tried his best to ignore them, his audio receivers overheard their conversation anyway.

“Y’know, don’t you think it’s a mighty shame that he’ll be passed off straight to Optimus Prime? I mean, he’s not likely to share is he?” The taller of the two rumbled, his blue optics traveling lasciviously the length of the warlord’s body, his field flaring in arousal and making Megatron’s plating crawl, clawed digits curling into weak fists. 

“You’re sick, mech,” his companion uttered in reply, gray faceplates contorting in distaste as he studied the warlord’s hunched form. “Do you even know how many people he’s killed?”

“Oh, come off it,” the other scoffed, glancing at his comrade over his shoulder, either oblivious or uncaring that the other decepticons, including Megatron, could hear their conversation. “Don’t tell me you never dreamed of bending him over like the rest of us back in the Academy? Besides, I’ve seen the way you eye that medic. I’m sure he’s killed a lot too and yet you still want a peace of that aft, don’t you?” The vulgarity and crudity of those words made Megatron’s optics flash in fury and he forced himself to remain motionless. If they were going to escape, they would need all the energy they could possibly get. He couldn’t waste what precious strength he had left on a pair of simple foot soldiers. 

The soft snick of an opening panel seemed to echo like a gunshot in the shadowed brig, the silver mech’s scarred faceplate going slack in shock and a startled squawk wringing itself from the second guard’s throat. “What. Are you doing??” 

“Relax,” his friend replied, a dark chuckle reverberating through the dark hall, his tone remaining deceptively nonchalant, even as he let his servo travel down to his opened interface panel, long digits curling around a half-hard spike. “Who’s gonna know?” Megatron closed his optics, forcing himself to remain still even as his vocalizer reset with a quiet click. He would kill them, tear them limb from limb so slowly and torturously that they would beg him to end their miserable lives, but not now. Right now he had to persevere. There was no other way.

“There are cameras here!” The elite guard member hissed, looking around the corners of the brig, blue optics wide. “What if Sentinel Prime finds out? We’ll be in so much trouble! And what if it reaches Optimus Prime himself?! You know how he ordered everyone to stay away from his slave! We’ll be court-martialed for this!” His companion only sent him an unamused stare, his servo never stopping in its movements, soft grunts escaping silver lip plates. 

“I turned off the cameras when we walked in here, Trundle, no one’s gonna find out, provided you keep your mouth plate shut. How difficult do you think it’ll be to convince the superiors that they just glitched and went out of commission for an hour? Given the state of this old warship, I doubt they’ll ever suspect anything.” The warlord could feel his own claws digging into his palms, energon starting to drip down his dull armor sluggishly from the shallow cuts. Trundle remained silent after that, though his optics brightened and his field filled with arousal as his friend’s grunts filled the room. 

Megatron could feel the mech’s blue optics burn into his plating, the lust filled brush of the other’s field unpleasant and nauseating and he could feel the urge to shrink away rise up within him, forcefully stamped down by his own pride. He would not show weakness, that would only spur the sick fragger on. Best to feign indifference, after all, that was the best insult he could dish out to a mech so obviously desperate for attention and power.

Something wet splattered against his armor and his eyes widened as he looked up, silvery blue fluid dripping down his arm and shoulder plating, pooling down to the floor. The guard was already stowing his interface equipment away, having achieved his overload, the proof of it now staining the warlord’s armor. How dare he.. How dare he defile him, Megatron of Kaon, like this?! He tried to rise to his pedes, but couldn’t, his legs refusing to support his weight and bringing him back to his knees even as he glared up at the guard, silently promising the other a slow and painful dismemberment, his sharp fangs bared. The words that left the other’s vocalizer next shook him to his very core.

“Lick it off.”

What? Megatron’s optics ridges furrowed. He couldn’t be asking- Surely he wasn’t that foolish! 

Blue optics flashing as the warlord remained motionless, the guard stalked forward, one servo reaching for something in his subspace. Megatron glared back, remaining unflinching as the other mech came to a stop right in front of the bars, grimacing in disgust as he felt the transfluid begin to seep into his joints. By Primus, the moment he got out of here-! 

“I said,” the Elite Guard member repeated, finally retrieving a small box, “lick it off!” The collar around his neck cables discharged for the second time within the duration of a few days, but with far more power this time than before, the silver mech barely stopping himself from crying out by biting his own glossa to the point of drawing energon. 

His frame slumped to the ground, stray charge still arching through his veins even as the collar was deactivated, the guard’s thumb leaving the accursed switch. Megatron didn’t notice the energy bars fade into nothingness until it was too late, the Elite Guard soldier coming to tower over him, blue optics narrowed. “It wouldn’t be difficult for us to have our way with you, you know. I’m sure nobot would even notice. We’ve fought in the war you started, we know other ways to make a mech suffer without resorting to a forced interface, I’m sure you can imagine a few of them yourself,” his voice, deceptively soft and cruel, seemed to echo in the small confines of the dirty cell, Megatron’s optics narrowing in anger and hatred.

He didn’t fear the mech standing before him and he didn’t tremble before the implication of torture. Yet he could not afford to bear injuries. Strika would be coming soon. If victory depended on swallowing his pride and dignity, then he would do so. The moment they freed themselves however, the warlord swore that his first victim would be the vile mech now standing before him.

Trying to ignore the triumphant optics of the mech standing above him, Megatron forced himself to drag his glossa over his stained armor, his tanks roiling in nausea at the mere implication of what he was forced to do. 

Anger burned deep within his spark.

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

The roar of a delighted crowd was almost deafening as the warlord was dragged onto the elevated platform, his servos shackled securely behind his back, a long chain attached to the collar strapped tightly around his neck. His seething glare seemed to go unnoticed as the jeering rose, wolf whistles joining into the cacophony as Knock Out was dragged onto the podium after him, his red plating scuffed and dull compared to its usual lustrous shine, closely followed by the rest of his officers.

This was the sentence the autobots had decided upon. Not execution, not even life-long imprisonment. No, instead they would be claimed by the heroes of Cybertron as their personal slaves, forced to serve and bear sparklings for the rest of their existence. They would be an example, a warning to never go against the council ever again, for even if it took four million years or longer they would still win.

Megatron knew what was about to come, and, looking at the rebuilt streets that by all accounts should’ve still been filled with wreckage and shrapnel, realized that their chances of making it out of here were growing smaller by the nanoklik. Strika hadn’t come. This was really happening. Even though he managed to keep himself standing tall, a disgusted sneer darkening his features, the warlord could feel the bitter feelings of distress and terror beginning to sink their cold claws into his wounded spark. 

The screams magnified as Soundwave’s mask was torn off by one of their Autobot escorts, shattering at the silent mech’s pedes. Even though his TIC remained completely still and outwardly emotionless, Megatron caught the brief flare of the other’s E.M field before it just as quickly withdrew, pulling tight around the lanky frame. The fear he felt projected there shook him to his very core. Nothing scared Soundwave. Nothing.. Except this.

Starscream’s panicked flinch as one of the guards passed him made the gathered autobots roar in laughter and Megatron’s claws clenched as he so dearly wished that he could retrieve his cannon, see those laughing face plates slowly contort in terror and freeze in that expression as they died. The only one who could mock the warlord’s subordinates was Megatron himself and no one else!

The crowd suddenly parting to make room caught his attention and he looked up, his dim red optics narrowing at the sight of the eight frames standing on the other side of the gathering, something finally snapping within him. So, this was it then, the moment he lost the freedom he so desperately fought for all these years, killed and sacrificed for all these millennia. This couldn’t possibly be the end for the decepticons, this wasn’t the way it should have gone! 

He didn’t see Team Prime begin it’s slow walk towards them, didn’t look up as Starscream was tackled to the ground, the seeker having attempted to turn around and flee, didn’t notice Shockwave’s antennae cant back or Knock Out reach desperately for his sparkmate, dim black and red optics wide in his desperation. All he could focus on were Optimus’s cold eyes fixed on his, void of any compassion, any emotion he had unknowingly always shown. ‘What happened to you?’ the silver mech seemed to ask, his dim optics half closing in grim resignation. ‘This isn’t like you, Optimus..’

Time seemed to fade from existence as they stared each other down, the Prime’s black digits curling securely around the chain attached to his collar, the excited screams and sounds around them no longer important as the two rivals looked at each other, one trying to understand the sudden change that had come over his nemesis, the other determined to make his former friend and lover suffer just as much as he had all these long years, just as much as his countless victims had at his cruel servos.

When Optimus Prime finally left the podium, Megatron had no choice, but to follow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the wonderful comments and kudos! I enjoyed hearing your thoughts on this and I hope that you’ll like this new chapter!

Strika watched the screens in silence, the energon cube almost cracking from the strong grip she had on it, forcing her to place it on the desk in front of her before she could break the container and allow precious energon to go to waste. So, this was the Autobot version of justice? Presenting their prisoners with no trials and sentencing them not to imprisonment, not to execution as they had first predicted, but to sexual slavery of all things? What a disgusting farce. One that reminded her all too well of life before the war, when the lower castes were just as openly exploited and humiliated. It would seem that the autobots had learnt nothing during these past four million years.. and that the decepticons hadn’t been thorough enough when hunting down the senators still upholding their functionist ways.

Behind her captured comrades, she could see the familiar faceplate of Sentinel Prime, his optics narrowing with unbridled jealousy as he watched Optimus Prime lead Megatron off the podium and his navy armored servos clenching almost imperceptibly into fists at his sides, the action going unseen by the majority of the public. However, it was not missed by the decepticon general’s critical eye. Strika should have known that Starscream was lying when he said that he had snuffed the Prime’s spark all those vorns ago, the incompetent wretch. Ah, but the jealousy, the open resentment Sentinel showed toward the other Prime.. she could use that and she most definitely would.

The moment the autobots’ yellow scout grasped the chain attached to Soundwave’s neck, Laserbeak trilled in despair beside her, lifting into the air and gliding into the hallway, no longer able to stand watching the transmission being played on the screens. Strika couldn’t say that she blamed him for that, having to witness your own host being claimed as a pleasure slave would’ve made anyone want to leave the room. If not foolishly send themselves into enemy territory in a reckless move to get revenge. Unfortunately for her, she herself could not afford to do so. 

Once the ‘ceremony’ was over, she commended the spy who had been filming it for the good work and, after ordering him to keep an optic open for new developments, turned off the screen, starting to pace up and down Ascendancy’s empty bridge. Lugnut’s increasingly worried pings were left unanswered, Strika needed some time alone to think. The blubbering fool she cherished with all her spark would only be a hindrance to her right now. 

The distant stars twinkled tantalizingly behind the reinforced glass of the warship when she turned to glance at them, the planet they were currently orbiting almost seeming to glow with its unusual pearlescent color. Paradrun-1. One of the richest energon deposits the decepticons had discovered to date. The absence of organic life was certainly an added bonus. The only drawback it had was its close proximity to Cybertron. While their defenses were strong here, however, abandoning it if need be would not prove to be that much of a great blow to the decepticon cause. After all, they still had hundreds of other planets under their control.

If they needed to, they could run. 

Grimacing in distaste at the thought of being forced to retreat, Strika turned her back plates to the windows, red optics glowing eerily in the darkness of the bridge.

Storming Cybertron right now was out of the question. Laserbeak just barely managed to escape the Elite Guard’s grasp and the autobots knew that he’d gone to fetch reinforcements. Which was why they had most likely already set up strong defenses around Iacon at the least, if not the planet. That latter was highly improbable, naturally, as even Sentinel Prime didn’t have that many men and ships available to station around it (and he wouldn’t have them for a long while yet), but she could not afford to even begin to approach without knowing their exact placement. Making a blind and rash move like that would only end in failure and they couldn’t allow that to happen. Not with Megatron’s life at stake. The Decepticon Cause would be severely weakened without him at the head of it. Strika needed to know the gaps in the chain of ships undoubtedly guarding at least half the planet, required more information and spies on Cybertron’s surface. Fortunately, that at least could be remedied. 

Over the years, she had gathered quite a lot of spies in neutral colonies and Autobot settlements, some joining the decepticons willingly, others forced to play the role due to blackmail. With the massive amount of cybertronians returning to their revived planet, it would be all to easy to smuggle a few of her best pawns onto the refugee ships. She just had to pick them very carefully, only choosing those that had proven their skills and loyalty during the course of war and at the same time could not be connected to any decepticon victories where it was clear that there had been an inside job. While Sentinel was not the sharpest tool in the medical tray, he had been the Elite Guard Commander since the beginning of the conflict and was a suspicious mech, constantly looking for those who could compromise his position. Not that there were many anyway.

The point was that the Prime was likely trying to look into each arrival’s backstory, but fortunately for the decepticons, he could not possibly have the manpower to do a thorough check for everybot, in fact, he probably couldn’t even check everybody to begin with. Just those he didn’t like from first glance, those he thought looked suspicious. For a femme who specialized in undercover operations, well, that made the job much, much easier for her. 

Strika allowed a crooked smile to stretch across her faceplate beneath her mask, her optics twinkling deviously.

She knew just who to send too...

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

Ratchet forced himself not to look away as Smokescreen strode forward, a sickeningly excited spring in his step, his black digits grasping Knock Out’s chain. The slight jolt and rattle seemed to be enough to snap the decepticon medic out of the internal musings he’d fallen into, his frame flinching at the sudden action and wide red and black optics snapping towards the autobot. Ratchet had to steel himself to watch as the former CMO struggled against the strong pull, desperation lacing his movements even when he was pressed against the taller frame of the Autobot rookie, a blue armored arm wrapping itself securely and possessively around the narrow silver waist. 

Smokescreen leaned forward, whispering something into a twitching white audial as the crowd roared its approval, wolf whistles and jeering filling the cold midday air. Ratchet didn’t know what the other told the red racer, nor did he really want to learn, but judging by the way Knock Out gave a revolted shudder, it couldn’t have been anything pleasant.

“Knock Out!” Breakdown lurched against his chains, wrenching them out of the servos of a shocked guard and giving an infuriated yell as he charged at the mech assaulting his bondmate, yellow optic flashing in fury and protectiveness. He was instantly tackled to the ground, Bulkhead’s massive form pinning the squirming bruiser to the polished surface of the podium, locking the blue servos behind the ‘Con’s back. Even so, the bruiser never stopped glaring at Smokescreen’s unconcerned form, orange faceplates contorting in anger as he struggled against his nemesis. “Get your disgusting servos off of him!”

Knock Out pushed himself away from Smokescreen’s grasping digits, reaching out desperately for his mate, but the rookie was already leaving the stage, the crowd parting respectfully around him. Too weak to resist, the decepticon was forced to follow, glistening tracks of a light blue liquid trailing down the pearly white faceplate. Even pride could not stop the red racer from crying. 

Feeling a pang of regret as he watched the two bondmates being torn apart, Ratchet turned away from the heartbreaking scene, his spark twisting in his chest. It had been his doing that had severed the bond between the two and though he knew that he had also saved their lives by doing so, he would never be able to forgive himself. 

A cybertronian’s spark was the most sacred, vital and at the same time unexplored part of their body. They were their very souls. Spark bonds themselves were still just barely scientifically explained, believed to be eternal. Their function as far as anyone knew was to bind cybertronians together, make them two pieces of one whole. For the longest time, spark bonds were considered unbreakable. However, due to inhumane experiments both in decepticon and autobot camps during the war, they managed to develop a block that would be able to let bonded pairs to go their separate ways or offline without killing the other. Though it disgusted him to no end just how this invention came to be, Ratchet also saw the good ways for which it could be utilized and had had high hopes for it when the war finally came to an end. And now that it had, the block was used to separate two bots who undoubtedly loved each other in order for them to be defiled and spark bonded to their captors. And that sickened him to his very core.

Then, unexpectedly, the moment Bumblebee took a few steps back, Soundwave following silently in his wake, it was Ratchet’s turn to choose.

The old medic already knew who he was forced to pick from this line, knew what would happen should he refuse to do so. They wouldn’t do anything to him, no. Ratchet still had the luxury of denying such a ‘reward’ without being suspected as a decepticon sympathizer. It was possible Shockwave’s fate that was prompting him to do this. 

It was no secret that the scientist was a threat to the council, more so than even Megatron himself. The warlord could still be somewhat controlled by someone equally as strong, both in frame and processor. Shockwave, however, could not. It would be all too easy for him to lose the collar and disappear from radar, taking shelter in one of the many labs he had all over Cybertron that they still hadn’t had the chance to properly search for. Before they knew it, they would lose the captured decepticon High Command and the war would start again, this time with a very high possibility of it ending in a far less pleasant way for the newly reestablished senators. He had to go before he could cause Cybertron to collapse into chaos once again.

However, Ratchet could not allow that. He told himself that it was because of his autobot ideals, that everyone deserved a chance at life, but it was more than that, wasn’t it? In some bizarre way, the medic felt a sort of kinship towards the decepticon scientist, on some level, they understood each other. Sure, they had their differences. Ratchet still held onto ethics when Shockwave had long since discarded them for one, but both of them were still scientists, explorers in a way, constantly delving into the unknown as they searched for answers. As bleak and hopeless as his situation had been during his captivity on the Nemesis, working on a project as difficult as the synthetic energon again had been a light in the darkness that surrounded him, even with the decepticon company watching his every movement, reading his every thought. Shockwave had never demeaned him once during those hours in the lab, never displayed any hatred for his faction or derision based on his beliefs. In fact, he didn’t even seem to be all that interested in those kinds of things, focused more on the work they were trying to do, investing his whole being into his research. How that research was used by his superiors was irrelevant, and for his sheer dedication to his work Ratchet respected him.

The council however didn’t see it that way. While they valued his intelligence and were more than interested in getting the ‘Con to work for them, it was far too risky to keep him functioning. The old medic was eternally grateful for the fact that he had had enough presence of processor to put the cortical psychic patch out of commission during his stay on the warship. They would have undoubtedly used it to extract all the information they needed, before extinguishing Shockwave’s spark. Perhaps by saving his life and keeping him out of the council or his team’s disgusting servos, Ratchet would, in a way, be paying his debt to the purple decepticon.

Shockwave looked up when his chain made a rattling sound as it was jostled, almost seeming transfixed by its lazy movements, before reluctantly dragging his attention towards the Autobot now holding the other end of it. Ratchet felt his spark clench in his chest at the blank gaze directed at him, no longer analyzing or calculating like it had before. The medic had seen that look before, even with the absence of a face to study he recognized it. It was a look he’d seen all too often during the war, but never managed to get used to. This was the look of a mech resigned to his fate, ready to die. Seeing it in Shockwave’s optic now... felt especially wrong.

The decepticon didn’t budge when he beckoned him to follow, his processor obviously elsewhere. Only when the medic was forced to gently tug on the silver chain attached to the other’s collar did the scientist move, his movements sluggish and reluctant, a heavy limp in his step. Looking closer, it was obvious that he had been beaten and multiple times at that. His shredded winglets and missing arm that usually housed his cannon were the most obvious indicators. Besides that, Ratchet could see the deep dents and scratches beneath the fresh paint covering the other’s form, clearly a botched job, designed to make the decepticon slaves look especially attractive from the elevated stage to satisfy the council’s love for theatrics, but not enough to cover up the superficial injuries littering Shockwave’s armor. The brief glimpses he caught of a bioluminescent blue liquid as the ‘Con walked also informed the medic of possible torn lines and internal injuries. Judging by the stumbling and somewhat uncoordinated movements, the mech was liable to have a small concussion, which could be another reason for the glazed look in the other’s optic.

The crowd parted around them as they left the elevated platform, mechs praising and congratulating him, some on his victory, others - on his new ‘acquisition’. There were those who genuinely expressed their thanks for liberating them from the decepticon tyranny and the revival of their planet and often times those were the only ones that did not provoke a profound feeling of disgust. Ratchet remembered washer fluid blurring his vision as he briefly knelt in front of a young spark barely older than two vorns, shaking her small servo when she extended it to him. Even so, the old medic couldn’t feel that he deserved her praise, not with his comparatively insignificant involvement in the war, not with how his team were using that hard won victory.

Regardless of what most believed and the cruelties the decepticons had committed during the war, they didn’t deserve this ‘punishment’. Nobody did. And the autobots, who had done no less vile things during those four million years than their enemies had no right to dispense it.

Ratchet forced himself not to react as a slew of derogatory remarks and insults were thrown the ‘Con’s way, respect and awe the crowd had shown the Autobot now nowhere to be seen, replaced by hate, fear and envy. Several times he had to stop the mecha surrounding them from ‘accidentally’ elbowing Shockwave in his recent injuries, some even being as juvenile as sticking their pedes out in hopes the decepticon would trip. He was barely walking as it were, they did not need to make it worse. Laughter broke out in the throng of mechs when the decepticon swayed, the medic having to reach out to steady him, before he could collapse, his expression becoming even more worried when the single red optic flickered momentarily. He had to get him out of here before Shockwave could lose consciousness.

Ratchet vented a deep sigh of relief when they finally made their way out of the crowd and into the city.

The streets of rebuilt Iacon were empty and quiet, most of the inhabitants either at the ‘ceremony’ or staying inside, unwilling and fearful of facing their enemies even if they were weakened and restrained. Stray rubble still lay in the streets here and there, yet to be properly cleared away, but soon would be with Bulkhead’s efforts. Along with the work of the unwilling decepticon drones now in their captivity. His tanks roiled in disgust at the thought.

He considered transforming in order to quicken their journey, but ultimately decided against it as he veered away from the main road leading to the center of the city, taking Shockwave down one of the many narrow alleyways instead. Not only was the decepticon too large for him to carry in alt mode, he was also most likely too weak to hang onto him tight enough for the whole duration of the short ride. That and he didn’t want to remind the scientist of the t-cog he had lost, the council having removed it from all their captives to render them even more vulnerable than they already were. It would be a while before they felt comfortable enough to reinstall them, if ever. Shockwave probably wouldn’t care for his compassion and consideration, would probably even consider it another Autobot sentiment, but the medic found that he didn’t care. 

If he couldn’t change the outcome of their victory, then he would Primus damn make sure that the decepticon under his care didn’t suffer more than he already had.

Shockwave seemed to notice that they were no longer in the rich part of Iacon, discreetly looking around at the buildings on each side of the road, silently watching as they became progressively poorer and in worse condition as they walked. The medic could sense the question brewing in that brilliant processor, the growing worry and the faint stirrings of panic, if the fluctuating E.M field was anything to go by. Given his history, it wasn’t that much of a surprising reaction. Ratchet forced himself to ignore the pang of guilt that realization brought, tried to disregard the sadness and sympathy towards the other cybertronian. It would only push the ‘con away.

They finally stopped in front of a small building at the very outskirts of the rebuilt city, the clean metal walls of white and silver further alienating it from the refugee shacks surrounding the tiny clinic. As a member of the elite Team Prime that was responsible for bringing about Megatron’s downfall, Ratchet had been offered a high post in Iacon’s Central Medical Research facility. It had been a generous offer, providing him with the possibility of access to advanced equipment and resources, not to mention laboratories where he could further the work he’d started before the war. Cosmic Rust, vent particle deformation, protoform deficiency - he could continue his research into these illnesses, finally do something that would bring him pleasure and at the same time would be used for good, not for wringing pain and suffering upon others.

Ratchet had declined that generosity, he knew what would happen if he accepted. Given his vocal reaction to the ‘punishment’ the council had decided upon, it would only make sense that the higher-ups would want to keep a close optic on him, make sure that he wouldn’t step out of line and compromise whatever plans they had for the decepticons. So, he refused to take their offer, asking instead for a small place in what was quickly becoming the poor district of rebuilt Iacon to help out with the multitude of incoming refugees. In order to limit the chances of his request being turned down, Ratchet secretly sought out an old acquaintance working as a news bot in one of the most popular news agencies at that time. Unwilling to have their actions questioned by the public, the council members had to grant one of the Heroes of Cybertron his wish.

His former team had questioned his choice at first. Smokescreen in particular could not understand why he would choose to stay away from the center, where he would always be recognized, always be surrounded by praise and the glory of his accomplishment. The mech was too young and foolish to understand Ratchet’s reasons, too naive to realize what was happening and that what he was doing went against everything the autobots had ever stood for. Smokescreen did always have slight sadistic tendencies.

Optimus though... No, he wasn’t going to think about that now. It still hurt too much to remember how much his friend had changed.

The chain went taught the moment Ratchet approached the door to unlock it and he turned around, not surprised in the least to see that Shockwave had not budged from his spot, single red optic dim and belaying his trepidation as he gazed warily at the single clean building in the area. The old medic felt his spark twinge in concern when he caught sight of the way the scientist swayed in one place, obviously unsteady on his own pedes. A definite sign of a mild concussion, he’d have to take a look at that as soon as he had dealt with possible life-threatening internal injuries. Hopefully, it wasn’t too bad and there was no risk of any processor damage.

“Why have you brought me here?” Shockwave’s voice rasped, the clicking sound and crackling static accompanying his words informing Ratchet of possible voice box bruising. The guards really had been ruthless while ‘interrogating’ Megatron’s officers. It made the rage within his spark at Sentinel Prime burn all the brighter. “These are not your personal quarters or the Medical Center in Iacon.” Even with the usual careful and emotionless monotone the scientist preserved in his speech the medic could still hear the worry and fear seeping into the other’s voice and cursed himself for not warning the captured ‘Con before bringing him here. Given his history, the conclusion the purple mech had come to made sense.

Shockwave thought he was going to be disposed of.

Careful not to act sympathetic and alarm the other even more, Ratchet sighed heavily through his vents, turning back to the keypad to punch in the access code. “You expected me to act as my comrades did,” it was a statement, not a question. The way the scientist twitched at that was answer enough.

“That would be the logical course of action,” Shockwave murmured, the chain rattling and pulling on Ratchet’s digits as the cyclops tried to back further away. “Unless there are other, far more important reasons that prompted you to bring me here rather than waste time establishing Autobot dominance over the Decepticon followers.”

The door slid open, but Ratchet made no move to walk through it, turning to face his decepticon counterpart with great reluctance, his bright, red and white frame outlined almost eerily by the dark entrance of the building. That did not help put the ‘Con at ease at all. Tired teal optics met red. “I’m not about to hurt you, Shockwave,” he said at last, forcing himself to keep the eye contact between them. What else was there to say? Mere words would not be enough to convince the other and they both knew it.

The scientist studied him for a long time, single eye boring into his frame as if searching for any stray twitch, any sign of possible deceit, and ultimately coming up with nothing. The Autobot, as dangerous and threatening as he was now, was being genuine. The chains rattled as Shockwave slowly, almost hesitantly, approached him, the air of paranoid caution still heavy around his larger frame, and Ratchet almost smiled in relief, gently escorting the injured mech inside. 

The interior was as clean and brand new as the outside, smelling heavily of antiseptic as was usual of such an establishment, but there was no sign of the same sterility, the same coldness and unfriendliness that usually accompanied clinics like these. Despite its first unpleasant impression, Shockwave found that it was quite pleasing aesthetically wise when he got a chance to truly study it. The walls were painted in light blues and pinks as opposed to the usual white and silver, a style Ratchet had obviously picked up from the humans in an effort to put his patients more at ease. The corridors were narrow, but not enough to cause claustrophobia, the floors pristine and yet void of any stains either from purged energon or spilled substances, gleaming in the dim light spilling through the small windows. That was unusual as well. Cybertronian architecture didn’t usually include openings within the walls such as windows, they simply had no need or desire to peer outside and if they did, they could always use holograms. Even seekers, who had a strong aversion for enclosed areas, preferred to simply step outside onto special platforms rather than stare at the world lying outside through a square shaped hole. This was purely human and for some reason or other, Shockwave found that it was a pleasant contribution to the already inviting atmosphere.

Ratchet led him down one of the many empty hallways, the simplicity of the layout allowing the decepticon to easily keep track of where they were going. They were heading to the back of the building by the looks of it, to the operating rooms. Shockwave would be lying if he said that it did not fill him with a strong sense of dread, unwanted memories of sensations and overwhelming fear assaulting his processor all at once. To his credit, the medic pretended not to notice when he faltered, his field calm and even, brushing against the decepticon’s in a subtle display of comfort and support. Shockwave had had a lot of experience with kidnappers, even before his.. encounter with the Senate. If they truly meant harm to him, there would be signs of their excitement. While it was possible to keep a face plate and E. M field emotionless, the same could not be said for body language, such as the periodic twitches of digits or perhaps the tension in the shoulder struts. If you paid close enough attention, you could even predict what methods they were about to try or if they were going to have some friends joining in on their endeavor. 

Shockwave had had a lot of time to teach himself to find these subtle signs and looking at Ratchet now, he couldn’t find a single one. The medic was completely relaxed if a bit concerned, presumably by his slave’s condition and it didn’t make sense. Was the scientist too exhausted, too unfocused to find the signals he was searching for? Or was this his mind finally giving up? No, that couldn’t be true. He’d survived much worse than this. Even with the multiple alerts flashing before his optic, he could see just how relaxed the Autobot was, completely at ease. 

He would not be this calm if he intended to do something to the slave now stumbling behind him.

Ratchet ushered him into one of the many operating rooms the clinic held, the door sliding shut smoothly behind them. The establishment wasn’t officially open yet, he’d have a lot of time to sterilize the room again later on. 

After adjusting the medical berth so it would lie in a horizontal position, Ratchet gestured for the scientist to take a seat while he went to fetch possible tools he’d need for repairing the other. In his rush, the chain slipped from his digits, falling to the floor with a noisy clang and he did his best to ignore the way Shockwave flinched, single crimson optic flashing briefly in alarm. The medic should’ve known that it’d be a while before the decepticon was comfortable enough to drop his hyper-vigilance. Trying his best to not pay attention to the way the purple mech flinched when he leaned toward him, Ratchet let his deft digits fumble lightly with the collar, removing the cumbersome chain and dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. Shockwave would never need it again. He briefly lamented the fact that he couldn’t do the same with the choker strapped tightly around the other’s neck without sending an alert to the Elite Guard, but forced himself to direct his attention elsewhere, his optics focusing on his arm as he scanned the other.

Thankfully, there were no serious injuries, other than a few bruises and small ruptured energon lines, the other was more or less unharmed. Knowing Sentinel’s goons... it could’ve been a lot worse. 

The only thing worthy of concern was how undernourished Shockwave was. Not surprising, the council was still quite paranoid and wanted the ‘cons as weak as possible. Ratchet resisted the urge to curl his lipplates in derision. This was not the time to wallow in his anger and disgust, he’d have a chance to do that over a nice cube of high grade later on. Blurr had said that he’d found a nice spot to set up a bar, might as well go and see the progress he was making for himself. Back to the problem at hand, Shockwave’s energon levels were just barely above 30%, way too low for a mech his size to function properly. No wonder he’d been on the verge of collapsing all the way here. 

The cube of medical grade energon was a pleasant warmth in his servo as he picked it up, slowly handing it to the ‘Con sitting tensely on the uncomfortable medical berth, overlooking the way the other sent him a startled look even as clawed digits slowly reached for the fuel as if expecting him to pull away. Or to spill it all over him for entertainment. One of the two. He also pretended not to notice the shock that briefly flashed through the other’s field.

After sealing off the few ruptured small energon lines, Ratchet turned his attention toward the damaged hip strut, pulling over a tray of tools he’d need to repair it. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t amuse him how Shockwave pointedly avoided looking at the needle as it slipped between his armor plates and pierced the soft protoform below. It would seem that even impassive and emotionless decepticon scientists could have a strong dislike for injections. 

The medic could feel the single red optic boring into his frame as he worked, the energon cube long since emptied of its contents and the thin proboscis the decepticon had used to consume fuel neatly tucked away behind the purple neck armor. Ratchet pretended not to notice Shockwave’s staring, teal optics focused with startling intensity on his work as he meticulously checked the energon lines for any tears and untangled wires that had been torn in the struggle back on the Nemesis all those weeks ago. This injury should’ve been repaired by now, wasn’t it considered to be going against the Autobot code by not offering prisoners medical aid? It would seem that Sentinel was not as law-abiding as he pretended to be.

Never breaking his gaze away from where he watching the medic work, Shockwave slowly set the empty container beside him, still wary of the Autobot lashing out should he move too suddenly and come off as a threat. He had already lost his cannon and his entire arm with it, the last thing he needed was to be incapacitated further. 

With his fuel levels now around 64%, he found himself feeling much better, the light-headedness and nausea steadily becoming a distant memory. He felt steadier, at the least he was no longer swaying in one place. That was a start. However, a successful escape was still far from possible. Not only was he missing his cannon and transformation cog, but he still had the collar strapped around his neck, an Elite Guard tracker imbedded within it. Even if he managed to distract the Autobot long enough to remove it, it would send out an instant alert and he’d only be hunted down and killed. The most logical option right now was to wait. He’d heard the guards complaining about an escaped minicon back in the brig and he’d seen the absence of Laserbeak on Soundwave’s chest when the communications officer had been dragged by. No doubt he’d gone to fetch reinforcements. Now, if only Shockwave could somehow send an encrypted transmission...

The autobot suddenly rising to his pedes broke him out of his internal musing and he looked up to watch as the medic finished closing up the paneling over his hip strut, walking over to the sink to wash off his energon stained digits. So, he’d been bleeding more than he thought and hadn’t even noticed. An unusual occurrence for the scientist, but one that could be explained by the situation he found himself in. After all, Ratchet’s behavior still perplexed him.

Why would an autobot care about a decepticons well-being? Why would he even bother keeping him alive, much less busy himself with repairing him? Shockwave knew he was a major threat, it was only logical that he’d be eliminated as soon as possible. So why? If they really wanted his lab locations and research, they could always use the Cortical Psychic Patch. The autobots had already proven that they had no moral reservations. What was stopping them from utilizing it? Unless... “The Patch was put out of commission.”

“Excuse me?” Ratchet turned around to face him, his damp silver digits still shimmering in the bright lights of the operating room, optic ridges furrowed. Shockwave met his gaze evenly, studying the aged faceplates of the mech before him. 

“You want my research, but cannot get it with the help of the Cortical Psychic Patch, because it is no longer operational,” ah, and there it was, the guilty twitch, the slight narrowing of those teal optics. He’d been correct in his assumptions, but it still did not explain the other’s peculiar behavior. “You knowingly sabotaged it. Why?”

The medic heaved a heavy sigh, leaning back against the counter behind him. Suddenly, he seemed far older than he already was, the corners of his lipplates turning down and his whole expression darkening, becoming somber and filling with pain and sadness. “Because I did not want them to use it on you or anyone of your comrades.” A long pause fell between them, the captive and the unwilling captor studying the other, each reluctant to speak. Shockwave felt the confusion grow, his processor turning over the new information and trying to process it. He’d known the autobots were soft, but recent experiences showed otherwise. Now he was confronted with a mech who had just confessed to betraying his own cause by intentionally breaking the only tool they had to most efficiently extract information. It was highly illogical. 

He told the medic that much.

Ratchet allowed a soft, but also bitter chuckle escape him, his servos falling to his sides as they had previously been held crossed tightly over his broad chestplates, rubbing his nasal ridge, exhaustion visibly seeping into every joint of his frame. “It may be so, Shockwave, but you and I both know that we have different views of the world. I’m not as pragmatic, I’m emotional and I do what I feel is the right thing to do, rather than let myself be dictated to by logic. I’ll be honest, I have no fragging idea what I’m doing. All I know right now, is that I can not agree with what is happening to you and your fellow decepticons. You deserve to be punished for the atrocities you committed, true, but so should all of us who fought in this damned war. And if you are indeed to be sentenced to something... not to this. Nobody deserves this.”

Shockwave seemed to accept this answer, for now anyway, and they remained silent after that, the medic wordlessly helping the other to get as comfortable as possible on the medical berth to rest, shutting off the lights as he left the small operating room. If he stared at the still figure of the decepticon scientist for too long before departing, none of them mentioned it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos! Enjoy the chapter!

The shuttle was crowded, far too crowded for her liking. Had her wings not been locked together beneath the camouflaging armor Strika had forcefully bestowed upon her, she was willing to bet they’d be twitching restlessly by now, drawing the attention of others. The General had been right after all, pretending to be a grounder would be far safer than remaining in her seeker mode, seeing as they were so rare nowadays and their tendency to be allied to the Decepticon Movement - common knowledge. She could swallow her pride for one mission. Especially one of this importance. 

The femme was all too glad to leave the cramped ship the moment they docked, a sharp jolt and whirr of machinery announcing their successful landing long before the pilot could make the announcement in their annoying high pitched vocalizer. She was vaguely reminded of Starscream and his equally grating rasp. Some mechs really should be strapped down and have their voice boxes forcefully replaced, the femme decided. Unfortunately, that would be considered as torture and assault in both Autobot and Decepticon communities. Mostly in Autobot ones though. Well, if she couldn’t have a go at the shuttle pilot, maybe she’d be able to do so with Starscream. Surely Lord Megatron was just as tired of that glitch rasping in his audio as much as the rest of them were. The other seeker would thank her for the impromptu surgery. Someday anyway. 

Her optics shuttered instinctively as she cautiously made her way out of the small transport, the bright star Cybertron was orbiting momentarily blinding her before her systems could properly recalibrate to the new lighting. The sight that met her eyes the moment she opened them.. was far from beautiful.

It wasn’t like the femme had not expected this. Cybertron had only been revived a few mega-cycles ago, its reconstruction would take a much, much longer time than that to be completed. Even with the active use of slave labor. Her lip plates curled in distaste at the thought. 

The buildings that already towered over their helms were still skeleton-like and dull gray - not yet encased in the polished metallic plates that Iacon had once been so famous for before the war, a false front the council had been fond of that successfully hid the ugliness and sickness festering beneath. The only building that looked even remotely finished seemed to be the New Senate in the middle of the still dilapidated looking city. She shouldn’t have been so surprised. Naturally the council would make sure to have their place of operations built before the living accommodations for the returning citizens. Typical.

The Elite Guard stationed on each side of the landing pad exit paid her no mind as she slipped past them, their blue optics scanning the apprehensive and excited crowd for any ‘suspicious’ activity. To put it simply, they were searching for seekers, virtually any other kind of flight frames and red optics. As if those were the main signs of a cybertronian’s Decepticon allegiance, as if the Decepticons themselves were just that stupid. Just because the High Command had managed to get themselves captured, did not mean that the rest of them were intellectually stunted. General Strika herself had also requested that she inform Lord Megatron of her decision to ‘bash his foolish helm in’ the moment their leader was safely on board of the Ascendancy. Needless to say, the femme had no intention of relaying that message. She was not feeling quite that suicidal yet. 

Her fake credentials were barely checked like she herself had been, the bot behind the reinforced glass glancing at them for less than two nanoseconds before uploading her basic data into the system. She wasn’t what they were searching for. They didn’t even bother checking her for any weapons or other illegal objects as she made her way through the exit. Either Sentinel Prime really was that much of an idiot, or the populace was still too unsettled and conducting a thorough search on every arrival would cause even more paranoia than it usually would. Less cybertronians would be returning to their home planet and that would mean less work force to help with the rebuilding. The spy was willing to believe both theories.

Much quicker than she expected, she suddenly found herself in the city of Iacon. 

She had to give the Autobots some credit where it was due, they had done a decent enough job on the repairs of the central district of the city despite focusing most of their attention on the New Senate building. 

The streets were pristine, no rubble or stray shrapnel in sight. Those houses that had somehow managed to remain standing throughout the duration of the war were cleaned out, their foundations reinforced so as to avoid accidental collapse. While still being nowhere near its former glory, Iacon was looking better than she had expected it to. Even though they were reluctant, the decepticon drones were natural hard workers and they were just as excited to see their home rebuilt as the Autobots. Even if they had to start with the Autobot capital. Being overly defiant was also not in their best interests right now. They were obviously holding out until they could be rescued with as few injuries as possible.

Ducking into a dark side-alley so as not to be seen, the femme activated her built in holographic map display, artificial blue optics narrowing in thought as she analyzed her position. According to their recent data, the mech she was searching for had left Sentinel Prime’s ranks and settled somewhere out in the outskirts, in an old oil factory to be exact. That shouldn’t be so hard to locate.

Turning off the display, she transformed, the unfamiliar feeling of wheels against smooth metal causing her to swerve uncontrollably for a few nanoseconds before she managed to straighten out, speeding off toward what was swiftly turning into the slums of the Autobot capital. Hopefully, nobot had noticed her small blunder and if they did - paid little attention to it.

Her spark clenched in her chest as she drove, watching in silence as the tall structures steadily turned into small and dirty shacks, held together by prayers and some miracle alone. This was the true face of rebuilt Iacon. No doubt these were the homes where most of the refugees were living now. Lord Megatron never would’ve allowed this. The Decepticons never would’ve permitted this blatant show of inequality based on origin and function, or would’ve done their best to lessen it at the least. After all, most of the mechs now living in these slums were working-class frames. The Autobots were reverting to their functionist ways and nobot even bothered to notice it. And they wouldn’t for some time yet. Not until it was far too late.

The old oil house now converted into a bar turned out to be very easy to locate indeed, as she had predicted it would. It towered over the rusty shacks, a dark and almost foreboding silhouette against Cybertron’s red evening sky. She could only hope that it’s owner would be home and that the interior would be far more pleasant than the outside. Didn’t the humans have a saying about something like this? ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’? Yes, that was it. For a pathetic, squishy and disgusting species, they did occasionally say something that could almost pass as quotable.

The femme transformed, skidding to a graceful halt before the closed steel doors, her blue optics scanning the rusted metal before her. There was no sound of the proximity alarm that was a necessary installment for an establishment such as this one, no voices or noises characteristic to those of pedesteps or clinking cubes. Despite that, she knew that the mech she needed was inside. 

Hissing a frustrated sigh, the femme banged her fist against the locked doors. There was no reply, but even so she didn’t leave. She knew he was in there, knew he was watching her and realized who she was despite the garish false armor she was forced to wear as a disguise.

She was already considering kicking down the door when it slid open of its own accord, a horrible screeching noise filling the air and making her clench her dentae, dulled digits curling over her audio receivers. Scrap! That was loud. Probably alerted the whole neighborhood to her presence too. Glitch.

A blue mech stood there, his frame type that of a standard racer build, vaguely reminding her of Knock Out, though considerably less flashy and far slimmer than the decepticon CMO ever was. If anything, his appearance could be best compared to the Autobot two-wheeler, though he was, naturally, much larger than her. His azure optics narrowed as he scrutinized the femme before him, hostility practically rolling off of him in waves.

“Blurr,” she greeted him as cordially as she could muster, fake blue optics glinting malevolently behind her mask. The brief glimpse of ruby red was not overlooked by the former Elite Guard soldier.

“Slipstream,” the Autobot said through gritted dentae, servos crossing tightly over his chest plate, frame tense. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“May we speak inside?” The seeker purred, subtly eyeing her surroundings, scanning them for any suspicious activity. Everything seemed quiet so far, but there was no telling what kind of spies could be hiding in the shadows, watching them.

Blurr’s jaw clenched, but he stepped aside regardless, allowing the femme entrance into his humble abode. It looked cozy enough, a stark contrast to its outer appearance for sure. Even with the lack of decent furnishings. The dim, warm lighting gave it a rather homely ambiance, the multiple small tables littering the large area in no way giving it the appearance of the room being cluttered, but instead impressing her with how pleasantly neat and organized it felt, each furniture piece seeming to be in the exact right spot while leaving enough space for moving around as well as a small stage and a bar. The autobot had good taste, she’d give him that. But she had not come here to admire the former Guard’s work. 

After double-checking that they were indeed alone, the femme turned back to her reluctant host, optics crinkling in amusement as the door to the street slammed shut with more force than was necessary, the blue racer glaring at her with as much hatred as he could muster, only to receive a mocking grin and a falsely innocent flutter of optic lashes in reply. “Is there any particular reason for your visit besides the chance of ruining my day?”

“So rude,” Slipstream chuckled, making a show of getting comfortable on one of the high bar stools, “and straightforward. Not even going to offer me a drink first?” A venomous scowl was her only answer and the femme sighed, bracing one of her elbow joints on the smooth surface of the bar stand. “That’s a ‘no’ then. Tough crowd. Anyway, you’re right, I do have another reason for being here besides causing you Autobot vermin grief. Which is this: General Strika would like to collect the debt you owe her.”

The owner’s optics narrowed instantly, his field pulling back against his tense frame in a nanosecond. “If she’s asking me to organize a breakout, I’m going to have to refuse,” Blurr carefully uttered after a long pause, voice quiet.

The seeker only laughed, draping one of her legs over the other in a single, elegant movement, somehow managing to remain graceful and alluring even with the clunky camouflaging armor hiding her true self. “No, no, nothing like that. All we want is Sentinel’s warship placements around Cybertron, as well as any other security measures utilized by the Primes. As a former Elite Guard member, we believe that you possess that information.”

“What?!” The Autobot sputtered, optics blown wide in shock, his servos falling from where they had been crossed tightly over his chest plate. “You can’t be serious! I can’t give you that data!” He slammed his servo against the bar table, shoving his faceplate forward until they were practically nasal ridge to nasal ridge, blue optics flashing. “I will not be the mech who invited the Decepticon army in to conquer his reborn planet!”

“So instead you will be the mech who permitted the return of functionism, who welcomed the concept of prisoners of war being sentenced to sexual slavery!” Slipstream hissed, all pretenses of friendliness vanishing in an instant, optics flashing a deep red. Half rising from her seat, she towered over the other cybertronian, E.M field practically crackling in her rage. Even the camouflaging armor that was specifically designed to make her identical to typical Autobot civilians could not fully disguise the vicious, cunning and currently infuriated Decepticon Air Commander hiding beneath.

Blurr reeled back as if he’d been slapped, dentae clenching so hard, the femme worried that they would crack, handsome faceplates contorting into a grimace of mixed guilt and anger. “That was a rash decision made by mechs who had directly suffered at the hands of Decepticons during the war,” he began, his speech quickening even more than usual due to his agitated state. He raised his voice when the seeker snorted in derision. “We’re doing our best to change it. Requests to speak to the members of the council, protests, news articles, interviews, discussions about a fairer sentence. We’re trying everyth-“

“-And how many mechs are really in favor of helping the Decepticon High Command?” Slipstream sneered, vocalizer practically dripping with venom. “How many are truly trying to alter the council’s decision?” Blurr looked away, momentarily unable to meet her gaze. That was answer enough. “You know perfectly well that everything you just told me is scrap, you know full well where all of this is headed, what a Pit hole Cybertron is about to become again, because you failed to learn from your past mistakes!” She spun around, a single digit jerking furiously in the direction of the closed door, something dark, something ugly taking over her expression, there and gone again, the red glow never quite leaving her artificial optics. “Nobot out there truly cares about what is being done! Either they’re too busy worrying about the trivialities of their lives, or they’re fragging having the time of their lives watching us suffer as they are too full of Senate propaganda to see the whole picture! And it’s not like they are going to get accurate versions of the war either! Most of them probably don’t even know why it truly started in the first place, do they? None of them know what the Decepticon Cause really stands for!”

Slipstream didn’t realize that she was pacing until she suddenly found herself standing in the middle of the large room, servos clenched. Even so, she continued, no longer able to hold her anger and feelings of injustice back. “You know better than anyone what it was truly like. You fought in the war against us! You know that the Decepticons were not the only ones committing atrocities to get ahead. Acid blasts, tainted energon, rust bombs - all developed by Autobot scientists, not Decepticon! And yet, people seem to only remember the Spark Extractor, the Resonance Blaster, the Tox-En! Tell me, how many civilian lives did the Autobots take in their pursuit to defeat us?!” Blurr opened his mouth plate to no doubt say something, but Slipstream didn’t give him that chance, cutting him off before he could even begin.

“Strika saved your life when your comrades left you for scrap, despite the fact that you were the enemy, despite the fact that we couldn’t afford to waste time on recovering you when we were busy retreating,” the femme hissed, leaning forward and forcing the other to take a step back unless he wanted to be faceplate to faceplate with her again.

“She saved me, because it suited her at the time!” Blurr finally retorted, optics narrowing, E.M field roiling with bitterness. “Her main incentive was the possibility of interrogating me, perhaps even persuading me to give up information voluntarily and join the ranks!”

“General Strika rescued you, because unlike you Autobots, we don’t abandon our own!”

“Yeah? Tell that to Starscream next time you see him, won’t you?”

Silence fell between them, the two cybertronians, so different, yet so similar, glaring at each other vehemently, realizing that at the end of the day, one of them would have to give in to the other, but each reluctant to do so. When it was clear that the other would not speak first, Slipstream sighed, her shoulders falling from their stiff hold in resignation. Artificial blue optics bore into azure once, all anger and fury having vacated them, showing the worry, fear and desperation festering beneath. For the first time in many, many years, Slipstream was being honest with someone other than herself. “It will only get worse from here.. for all of us. Autobot and Decepticon alike. We saved your life all those millennia ago, Blurr. Please, help us save ours.”

The Autobot heaved a heavy vent, optics shuttering. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, voice barely more than a whisper. “I can’t.”

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

Soundwave tried to ignore the derogatory remarks thrown his way, he really did. He had far more important things to do, rather than waste his time by paying attention to the enraged crowd. Needed to think, needed to analyze, needed to figure out a plan. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t focus, the same thought running through his mind again and again on a loop. Strika hadn’t come for them. They were on their own. 

The Decepticon TIC knew that their General probably had good reasons for not coming to their aid. The femme’s loyalty had been tested enough times during the war to convince even the ever watchful spymaster of her unquestionable devotion to the cause. Even so, thoughts of them being purposefully abandoned, left in the vile servos of Autobots wormed their way into his mind, his spark clenching against his will behind his chestplates. Just when he was about to fall into a state of hopelessness, Soundwave would snap himself out of it, forcing his exhausted being into action. He was certain that Megatron was not wasting his time wallowing in self pity and fear. The warlord was probably concocting several possible plans right now. Plans that would need to be refined and looked at by Soundwave.

That wasn’t to say that the warlord was a bad strategist, on the contrary, he was one of the most brilliant commanders Cybertron had seen for many years. There was a reason he’d been able to fight and almost defeat a mech who had carried the collective wisdom of the Primes within his chest for over four million years. But Megatron’s plans were often direct, confrontational and had a high tendency to end with a high body count even though they almost always got what they wanted. That would not benefit them in this situation. This needed to be handled carefully. One wrong step, and they would all be executed. Like they had in the mines, Soundwave and Megatron would once again have to work from the shadows and regain the glory the Decepticon Empire had lost.

If only he could somehow speak to him...

Soundwave discreetly scanned the crowd, but the warlord was already long gone, along with the Prime. The spy had to tamp down the rage that surged through his lines. Revenge would have to wait, right now they needed to escape and rendezvous with Strika’s warships before bridging all the way to New Kaon. 

That was their safest bet. Not only because most of their forces were no doubt already massing there, along with their best generals, after receiving the news of their capture, but because even after four million years its location still managed to remain a mystery to Autobot Intelligence. And that’s not to so say they hadn’t been trying really hard to find it. Because they had, but the planet remained a closely guarded secret, it’s exact coordinates unavailable to those who had not reached a specific rank in the Decepticon army.

Though he would never admit it, Soundwave had a nasty suspicion they would need it as a place to hide. 

He could feel the Autobot scout’s optics on his plating, knew the other was watching him as he carefully guided him through the excited crowd, black digits clamped firmly around the silver chain, though they resisted from tugging at it. For that at least Soundwave was grateful, his neck cables still aching from being forced to sit for a long period of time in an uncomfortable position in the cramped cell. That of course didn’t mean that he wouldn’t kill the mech the first chance he got, however. The Decepticon TIC wasn’t about to forgive the other for shoving a sword through Megatron’s chestplates or for agreeing to partake in this farce the newly reestablished council called a punishment. At the end of the day, Bumblebee and the rest would die and the Decepticons would once again rise up to bring around the second Golden Age of Cybertron.

Despite their loud and angry proclamations, the crowd still parted around them, blue optics wide as they watched the yellow Autobot lead the infamous “Eyes and ears” of the Decepticon Empire back to the New Senate. He could tell that they still feared him and, honestly, who could blame them? Soundwave knew he was the subject of many legends circling the Decepticon High Command. The infamous spy. The famous former gladiator. The silent shadow watching his Decepticon brethren in search of possible traitors in their midst. When he did join the battlefield, there were usually no Autobot survivors. The list was a long one and went on seemingly forever.

Soundwave had never paid much attention to the tales spreading amongst the colonies, Neutral or otherwise. If anything, they were rather useful at times as he used his opponent’s fear and hesitation to get the upper hand rather than brute force. This time was no different. Even with the shackles and chains, the Decepticon TIC was still an imposing presence, much like Megatron himself. He could use this. But not now.

It didn’t take them as long as he would’ve liked to emerge from the crowd and step into the heart of rebuilt Iacon. Despite his best efforts, the Decepticon spy master couldn’t help, but let his gaze be drawn to the skeleton like structures towering over their helms, his expert optics already locating several unique features, characteristic to Cybertronian architecture. Even though it was difficult to admit even to himself, Soundwave had missed this, the feeling of metallic ground beneath his pedes, the massive, silver cities, Cybertron’s sky. How long had it been since he’d seen his home planet alive? How many times had he dreamt of this moment? Except in his imagination it had always been of him standing at his master’s side, gazing upon the new version of Cybertron where there was no inequality based on function, no pain and degradation, no such thing as the Pits of Kaon.

They would have led Cybertron into another Golden Age... had it not been for the Autobots.

So lost was he in his own thoughts, that he didn’t notice the two of them entering a building until he felt the floor change beneath his pedes, the familiar hissing sound of closing doors finally registering in his audio receivers. Soundwave resisted the urge to curl his digits into fists, silently berating himself. He should have been paying more attention to his surroundings! As the Decepticon Spymaster, he should’ve kept an optic on the layout, located possible escape routes out of the building! Because he would be escaping it. Eventually. When the time was right. 

But it was too late for that now, they were already in the elevator, riding up to one of the top levels where the elite’s suites were usually located. The lack of music and pretentious images on the walls was a small consolation, if any. 

Soundwave didn’t resist as he was led out onto the elevator landing, Bumblebee’s periodic tugs on the chains unusually gentle as he guided his new slave to the single silver door opposite them, as if he were coaxing the Decepticon to follow rather than dragging him along against his will. Soundwave’s optics narrowed, though the rest of his face plate remained carefully expressionless. What was going on here? Was this another of the Autobot’s tricks?

The chains fell with a noisy clang the moment the door slid shut behind him, the soft click informing the two mechs that it had locked, the scout’s black digits jerking away from the offending bonds as if scalded. That... was unexpected. Soundwave had, admittedly, not seen this coming. 

“Look, I uh...” Bumblebee finally began after a long pause, vocalizer strangely hoarse, one servo rubbing the back of his neck cables in obvious discomfort. His blue optics averted from Soundwave’s face, turning to stare at the floor instead as the Decepticon remained silent, purple optics boring into the yellow frame. That only seemed to remind the other of the heavy bonds still wrapped around the TIC’s frame. “Actually... May I remove the chains first before we talk? I can’t believe they’re really comfortable...” Soundwave froze in place, purple optics widening before narrowing into tiny slits of suspicion, taking a cautious step back to the closed door, his body unconsciously moving into a battle stance in case he had to defend himself even though his chances of winning were rather low. His tanks still ached with hunger, exhaustion and weakness made him wobble where he stood despite his best efforts, his optics shuttering every now and then as his taxed systems attempted to drag him into recharge. Soundwave was in no condition to fight and they both knew it.

However, Bumblebee did not budge from where he stood, only raising his servos in a placating manner, blue optics wide and earnest as he patiently waited for the cornered Decepticon to permit his approach. The silent mech couldn’t understand it. He would have to keep an extra close optic on the yellow mech, but for now he could pretend to be docile.

Wordlessly, Soundwave outstretched his shackled servos, purple optics never leaving vibrant yellow armor as Bumblebee slowly approached, deactivating the energon restraints and slowly, carefully removing the chains from the Decepticon TIC’s frame. As soon as the Autobot scout stepped away, Soundwave allowed himself to shift, unable to stop himself from grimacing slightly in discomfort at the intense soreness in his joints. His body was far more delicate now than it had been back during his gladiator days, he had sacrificed a lot in order to become the spy Megatron needed him to be, including his heavy armor.

He allowed the Autobot to help him to the living area of the large suite when he couldn’t keep himself from stumbling, his legs still weak from the time he’d spent motionless in the warship’s cells. Bumblebee’s touch, thankfully, remained light and non-invasive on his armor, leaving his body the moment the exhausted Decepticon was deposited onto the couch, the scout taking a quick step back out of the spymaster’s personal space. As if he expected him to recoil from his presence.

Well, the Autobot was not completely wrong there, but why would he care? Why would he show so much consideration for Soundwave’s comfort? The Decepticon TIC didn’t dare hope that the soft-sparked Autobots they once fought against were still there, buried deep underneath millennia old anger and hate. Those kinds of thoughts were dangerous and would only lead to their own demise. The Decepticon Cause couldn’t afford to lose their entire High Command. So, what other reasons could there be for the other’s strange behavior? A bizarre interrogation tactic? Or maybe an unwilling mech just didn’t get his engine revving? Whatever the reason behind the Autobot’s kindness was, Soundwave knew that things could turn ugly really fast.

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

Sensing that the other needed some time alone, Bumblebee decided to temporarily leave the other to gather his bearings, heading instead for the cabinets lining the walls above the small kitchen area. He couldn’t imagine that the captives were provided with adequate fuel during their captivity on the Nemesis. Sentinel Prime was not that nice, the scout had learnt that quickly. 

His servos instinctively reached for mid-grade energon, but he soon directed them toward the low grade instead, remembering the many times Ratchet had forced them to watch their tanks after sustained injuries. The last thing he needed was to accidentally cause Soundwave to upheave his meal and humiliate him even more, not to mention shatter any hopes of building some trust between them. 

He could feel those purple optics watching him even though whenever he turned to glance at the silent mech the spymaster was always conveniently looking away, long digits absentmindedly tapping against the soft padding of the sofa, frame tense. The sight saddened the yellow scout. The realization that his presence registered as a threat, that Soundwave expected him to attack him at any moment in ways that sickened him to his very core made his spark clench in his chest, his blue optics to shutter. 

He still viewed Soundwave as an enemy, that much hadn’t changed. Somewhere deep down he still expected the other to act in a hostile manner, his mind instinctively planning out ways to use his surroundings against the injured ‘Con. He was still angry at him too, for attacking Wheeljack, for shocking Bulkhead and Smokescreen, kidnapping Ratchet... There were many things that he would never be able to entirely forgive, but this? What the council was doing? It didn’t sit right with him, it didn’t feel like the correct course of action to take. The thought of keeping the other as a personal slave made his tanks roil with nausea, his spark to ache. There had to have been another way, a different path they could’ve taken, right? Hadn’t Optimus always told them that everybody had the capacity for change? Was a peace treaty, for example, really that much of an impossibility? Why this? Why slavery? Wasn’t that also one of the concepts the Autobot Code denied?

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings,” Optimus’s voice echoed in his helm, that familiar deep voice making his E.M field fill with sadness at the memories it brought forth. Wasn’t that what they had all believed? What had changed? To his great chagrin no matter how many times he wracked his processor in search of a suitable answer, he couldn’t come up with any. 

But something had changed the mechs he once knew and he would fragging make sure he found out what.

Soundwave tilted his helm the second he approached, warm low grade in servo, not outright looking at him, but silently acknowledging his presence. Well, that was better than nothing. The scout had known that the mech wasn’t likely to speak, but he’d feared that the other would be too far gone to pay much attention to the real world. Many prisoners he’d encountered during his time as a soldier retreated into their own minds after coming to the conclusion that they were never going to be rescued, successfully driving themselves insane in the process. And considering that Soundwave had spent a significant time trapped in the Shadowzone, he wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out the mech had been finally pushed over the edge.

Fortunately, Soundwave was stronger than he’d thought.

Long and thin digits curled around the offered cube and he resisted the urge to help guide the fuel to the ‘Con’s intake, understanding that the action would not be appreciated. Decepticons were not like Autobots, admitting they needed help to refuel because of how exhausted and injured they were would be like signing a death warrant. The others would view them as the weak link and the Decepticon in question would end up offline sooner rather than later. Bumblebee had spent a long enough time fighting them to learn that. Besides, allowing the silent mech to refuel on his own would be giving him some semblance of control, something that Soundwave and the rest of the captured Decepticons so sorely needed right now.

He’d been worried the other would would not accept the fuel, either out of suspicion or pride, but the spy seemed to realize how vital it was for him to fuel in his injured state, prioritizing his health over all. That and he had apparently watched the other close enough to know that nothing had been added to his energon. Even if it upset him to be suspected in such unsavory acts, Bumblebee knew he couldn’t exactly hold it against the other. He would’ve reacted the same way, had he been in Soundwave’s place. Due to their past history, there would always be some level of distrust between them, all he could truly do was be thankful that the other trusted him just enough to accept energon out of his servos.

“Look, Soundwave I-“ the words wouldn’t come to him, the right ones anyway. He was never the most eloquent one on their team, never had been, not like Ratchet and Optimus. But Bumblebee had always spoken straight from the spark and that was what he was going to do now. Just pretty words and colorful phrases would not be enough to convince the other of his intentions. If anything, they would put Soundwave even more on edge. 

The Decepticon didn’t turn to look up at him, but he knew that he was listening regardless. “This may be hard to believe, but I want you to know that you’re safe here. Well, as safe as you can possibly be, given the circumstances. I know it’s a small comfort, but it’s all I can give you right now. I-I guess I just wanted you to know that. And.. If it makes you feel any better I’m truly sorry for what the council is doing to you, I’ve been trying to reach Optimus, but we haven’t yet had the chance to properly talk after Sentinel’s arrival. I’m sure that it disgusts him as much as me and he’s playing along until he can find a way to fix things.” He was aware that he was rambling and for some inexplicable reason, Bumblebee felt as if he were trying to convince himself more than the Decepticon sitting on his living room couch.

Soundwave still said nothing, but he was openly watching the yellow scout now, purple optics studying him, seemingly boring into his very being. Appraising him. 

After a long pause where it soon became obvious that neither of them were about to speak again, the Decepticon TIC handed him back the now empty cube, movements slow and careful, as if still hesitant in case a careless, sharp motion provoked the yellow bot’s aggression, but trusting the other enough not to remain a silent, still statue. Bumblebee accepted it with a small and reassuring smile, or so he hoped, walking back to plop it down in the sink with the other dirty cubes. He’d wash them later. 

When he turned back, Soundwave was already on his pedes, still somewhat unsteady, but obviously unwilling to remain seated for long. The scout would’ve personally preferred if the other had waited, but decided against voicing his objections, allowing Soundwave to acclimatize himself with his new surroundings. That and get his own limbs under control after a long period of remaining motionless. 

It felt odd, seeing Soundwave like this. Weak, slightly disorientated and shaky, his mask gone from his face plate and chest seeming oddly bare without Laserbeak’s body covering it. The sight didn’t fill him with happiness or triumph. It didn’t make him feel as if justice had been served. All he could really feel was sadness, disgust and worry. Was he in the wrong to sympathize with them? Was in fact the one betraying the Autobot Code? No, that couldn’t be right. What they had done was cruel, not Autobot-like at all. 

They had acted like Decepticons.

Soundwave’s digits grasped the refueling counter beside him and he looked up, surprised to see the Decepticon now standing before him when mere minutes ago the other had been on the opposite side of the room. The other’s voice recorder crackled to life, Bumblebee involuntarily wincing at the static filled sound.

“Thank you.”

Bumblebee froze, gaping at the Decepticon standing across from him, his face plate soon brightening in a happy smile. 

“You’re welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, yes, when I was finally in the mood to return to PaS, I found that my writing style changed dramatically from what it had been before, making it difficult to return to the original story. That and because PaS became a convoluted mess. So I decided to rewrite it using my new style. The old version will still be available to you as I will keep it on here for a few more months in case you want to read it/download it/ whatever.
> 
> Hope you like this chapter!


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